Page 22 of Commitment Issues
My words are cut off as he presses, with a firm but gentle touch, the kitchen towel to my lip. My breath catches in my throat as heat dances across my skin. Elliot, his brow creased in an intense frown, glares at my paper-covered lip, determination written across his face to stem the blood flow. Not that there’s much blood in my lip, because it’s all rushed south.
Elliot’s so close, just a hair’s breadth away. His cologne once again drenches my senses, that sea salt tang that reminds me of home, but now, more than that, just saysElliot, as it mixes with the warm, masculine scent of the man himself. I want to breathe in deep and drown in the aroma, but it’d just look like I’m sniffing him like a dog.
“I think it’ll be okay now,” I say, my voice strangled and just a touch squeaky, as I take over paper towel pressing duty.
His eyes jerk up to mine, and it’s everything I can do not to groan and melt into a pile of mush at this feet. Because the pale blue of his eyes is dark, devoured by his distended pupils, leaving no more than a thin rim of colour. I suck in a breath at the hunger and heat I swear I see in their inky depths, the same hunger and heat that’s burning low in my belly. All it would take would be a tiny step forward, and—
“No need for A&E. Just be careful of it, as you don’t want it opening up, but it should be okay in a couple or so days. The smallest wounds anywhere on the head or face tend to bleed badly,” he says, stepping back in what’s more of a stumble.
He goes to wash his hands and I let my breath go, in a long and shaky exhale. When he turns back to me, he’s smiling, his eyes once more light blue and clear, and whatever it is I thought I saw is nowhere to be seen.
He goes back to preparing the food, and it doesn’t take long for him to push a piled-high plate towards me.
“This is great. It’s like a proper pub lunch. Thank you.”
He smiles, and there’s something almost shy about it. It’s a glimpse of another Elliot, an Elliot who’s not urbane and confident, but an Elliot who’s not used to praise or compliments. And it makes me think of Gavin, the man for whom Elliot never met expectations.
I don’t know the man. I don’t know if he had good reason for walking out. I don’t know if he’s as injured, battered, and bruised as Elliot. But I do know something. I know it from some deep, dark place within me, and slowly, slowly, slowly, it’s creeping up into the light.
Elliot needs somebody to stand shoulder to shoulder with him from the moment we step off the plane at Marseilles, to the moment the cabin door closes on the flight home. He doesn’t need a companion, he needs armour, and for better or worse, that armour’s me. For the first time since James’ call and his crazed suggestion, I’m truly calm, sure and settled. I can do this, I can do it for Elliot. I can be everything he needs.
James, with his cat-like eyes that pierce beneath the skin, knows that, and now, so do I.
